02 March 2010

Owen has recently become interested in his lava lamp. Jennifer bought him a small, used lamp at a thrift store. It needed a bulb, but even after I bought one, the lamp just sat on his shelf for months. But lately he’s been keeping it on his nightstand and watching the ‘lava’ as he drifts off to sleep. He also has this contraption that’s sort of like an hourglass, only instead of sand, there’s gel. And instead of an hour, it’s about 10 minutes. He keeps flipping the thing over and over as he’s supposed to be going to sleep.

Well, last night, seeing the relaxing effect slowly moving particles have on my son, I said: “I’m gonna go get you something very special, okay?” He perked his head up, but I told him to lay back down: “I’ll be right back.”

I came back in with my antique hourglass. I turned it over and the sand began trickling down. “This used to belong to my dad’s mom’s dad,” I said. He just stared at me for a second, so I added: “Did you understand that?” He nodded yes, but I decided to clarify: “You know my dad is grandpa from Florida, right?”

Another nod.

“Okay, well this used to belong to his mama – and she got it from her daddy a long time ago.”

“Where did he get it?” Owen asked. This is such an obvious question, but I must confess I’d never thought of it before.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know. And he died a long time ago, so we can’t ask him anymore, can we?”

“You can ask grandpa from Florida,” Owen suggested.

I told Owen I didn’t think grandpa would know. I didn’t explain all this to Owen, but my Dad never owned the hourglass (its possession went straight from my grandma to me). Owen then suggested we ask my Dad’s mom…which is not a bad idea, since she owned the hourglass for years (decades?) and could possible offer some history behind the object. Only…she won’t have nothing to do with me.

That brings me to today. I kept considering if I should write to my grandma and inquire about the hourglass. A letter, after all, would be far less confrontational than a phone call. She could just chuck the letter in the trash if she wanted to; or she could read it and see there’s nothing in the letter to scar her faith.

An easier solution, I think, would be to call my Dad. I thought of calling him all today. He doesn’t shun me, but I thought it would be weir to call him to ask about something that, normally, I should be able to call my grandma for. Make sense?

Also today: I watched this  mini-documentary. This was fascinating. One incredible artist/musician was discussing why he chose to cover a song created by another incredible artist/musician, then that person talks about why they covered a particular song penned by the former. I’ve loved Paul Simon’s “The Boy in the Bubble” for years – but watching this 9 minute video helped me appreciate it in a deeper way.

03 March 2010

Class again today. I had an enjoyable time in class; probably the best I’ve had this semester so far. I turned in my assignment right away, then we read Ethan Coen’s book of short plays Almost an Evening. I volunteered to read a part in each play, ’cause it seemed like the fun thing to do.

Anyway, I’m just not feeling it this semester. I’m not sure if its really the class itself, the late, long class periods – or just life. I’ve never been the ‘traditional’ student (someone who enters college immediately after high school). During every semester I’ve been in college, I’ve always been married and had a job, and I’ve never lived on campus. But school seems to have slipped to a lower priority than ever before.  Being sick for 4 weeks didn’t help. Problems with buying a home and needing a new car are chipping away at my attention, too. Did I mention there are lay-offs looming at my job, too? Also, Jennifer and I have a child on the way. All this tends to make me relegate school to a lower position on the priority pole than is probably recommended by college advisers.

01 March 2010
At the gas pump today, I was once again confronted with the conundrum of which way to insert my check card. There’s a handy little diagram etched on the panel, but for some reason, my mind always flips it, and I can’t see which way it goes. It’s like one of those optical illusions where you can’t determine which way the stairs are facing.
The screen on the pump asks if I’m a “Rewards Member.” Yeah, I am, though I hate joining those corporate clubs, but hey, I gather points and one day I can trade them in for free gas. The really creepy thing, however, is that once I’ve swiped the card, the screen reads “processing loyalty.” I can’t really express it in words…but something’s just doesn’t feel right about having my loyalty “processed.”

I made a post a few weeks ago about a new wallet I purchased. It was only over the past weekend that I finally got around to shifting the contents of my wallet from the old one to the new. (I needed to see the new one on a shelf for a while so I could warm up to it.) Overall, I like it better, but at the pump today, I discovered a problem: less compartments for cards means I have to search through more cards. What I mean is, I know which compartment had my check card in it, but I have four cards in there now instead of two, so, you know, more work.

27 February 2010
Owen and I walked to the park today. As we approached a cross-walk, I pointed out a large plastic square with a ‘3’ on it just lying in the snow. I picked it up and showed it to Owen. “Look at this big 3 just sitting here in the snow,” I said.
He said: “What’s your idea for what it’s there for?”
“Well,” I said, I think it fell off this sign,” and I pointed to the large SuperAmerica sign directly above us. I showed Owen how there were removable numbers on the sign that the employees put up there to display the price of gas.
“What was your idea?” I asked him.
“I thought the 3 was there to show that we live on Earth,” he said. I guess he figures that there are ‘3s’ liberally sprinkled throughout the planet so that would-be intergalactic travelers can quickly identify which planet they’re on. (And, yes, Earth does = 3 because it’s the third planet in line from the sun.)

This evening, the three of us went to a nearby Mexican (and El Salvadoran and Peruvian) restaurant for dinner. While examining the menu, Jennifer asked: “What’s the difference again between a burrito and an enchilada?” Since I didn’t know, precisely, how to answer her question, I referred her back to a joke my old friend Joel used to say: “Everything at a Mexican restaurant is just the same three ingredients in different combinations.” We both laughed.
It’s true, you know. I mean, I think 3 is an exaggeration, but no matter what a person orders at such a place, they are going to get a plate with a tortilla stuffed with cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, with rice and beans on the side. There might be some beans inside the tortilla, and the tortilla itself might be hard or soft, but, essentially, there’s no point in fretting over whether to order #5 or #33.
It’s funny how something as innocuous as that can make me miss Joel. I only started getting to know him in the last few years that I was a Witness, but we had a lot in common, and I always enjoyed being with him. In 2006, he and his new wife Laura even moved a couple towns away from us (which was close comparatively), and I was excited to have him so close. We saw movies together, we worked on some films together, and we joked about all manner of pop culture lore. We had some great email exchanges, too, and I knew any link he sent me was bound to be compelling (or, at least, a time-waster).
Then I left the religion, and he said he wasn’t gonna be my friend anymore. Actually, he didn’t say anything, so I emailed him to see if he’d come over one evening to watch a movie with me. He declined, saying he’d heard I might be detrimental to his faith. He said if things ever changed, he’d hook up with me again.
Still waiting…

28 February 2010
Today I kept thinking about not having a new house for the baby. At the time Jennifer got pregnant, I had reason to believe that we’d be moving into a house within six months. But thanks to some end-of-the-year rulings in Congress (fuck you, Democrats), we now have to wait three years. As Jennifer pointed out, we never miss an opportunity to fail, and this is just another instance of that. I’m not sure how the whole home-birth thing will play out now. I wanted our newest edition to be born in a home – our home, the way it’s meant to be…but I guess a short sale from two years ago means I can’t have a house.
This is, of course stupid. For one thing, had we declared bankruptcy two years ago, we’d be eligible for a house, so I guess we should have stopped paying all our bills instead of just one. It’s hard to see how the government can support such a contradiction logically, but this is the same government that will give me 90 days in prison for mugging someone, but 5 years for downloading a song. Go figure.
One option is to have a friend or family member buy a house and then rent it to us for a year until we are eligible to buy it. Even though I’d be happy to make this profitable for whoever would be willing to do it, I don’t think there are any options here, either. I mean, we are better with our money than, well, pretty much all of our peers, but there are still some big issues. For one thing, most of our friends are poorer than we are, having been likewise screwed over by their parents (via a cult), too. Then there’s my Dad, who might actually be willing to do such a thing, but having lost his rental property last year, and currently on unemployment, I don’t think he’s in a good position. My mom would likewise be willing to do such a thing, but she’s married to a guy that won’t even talk to us, so I don’t think he’d be willing to do business with us.
Maybe Jennifer and I should’ve hit up our relatives for cash back in the ’90s, back when all our siblings were doing it.

On another note: check it out – I’ve successfully written about something everyday for two months now. After reviewing some of my posts, I realize all my posts are either depressing or sarcastic. This probably explains the lack of interest in this blog. I’ll try to keep this going a little longer, if for no other reason than so that I don’t look like a loser to my future self reading these posts, but there are only so many depressing thing to write sarcastically about.
Either way, so long February, and good riddance.

24 February 2010
Today I attended class for the fourth time this semester. I think I finally got it right this time, though.
For the first two class periods, I stayed late at work and then drove straight to college. This made for a couple of very long days (especially ’cause I was sick, too). Last week, I went home after work, but I didn’t get home until 4:00, and since I had an appointment in the writing center at 5:30, I only got to be home for an hour. Today, though, I got home at 3:30, and I didn’t have to leave again until 6:00. Granted, it was still a long day, but at least I had a decent break at home for a while.

25 February 2010
Today, my mom picked up Owen from preschool. I’m glad she did; we finally got it to work right. See, last week, she was supposed to pick him up, but he was very sick that day so, instead, she came over to our apartment and had to sit with a sick boy all day. It made me feel bad, because I knew Owen had been excited to have his Grandma come pick him up from school and I knew my mom was looking forward to seeing Owen for the first time since mid-October.
Anyway, today things proceeded more smoothly: my mom arrived at Owen’s preschool a half-hour early (she’s like that) and, after he came out of class beaming with happiness at seeing his Grandma, the two of them lunched at Mickey’s Diner which, I think, is Owen’s favorite place to eat (well, it’s in his top five).
I’m starting to view Thursday evening as the beginning of weekend lately. All three of us are done with our classes by Thursday afternoon and we all sit together and watch Survivor before going to bed. True, I still have to get up and go to work on Friday, but that’s a lot less stressful than school.

26 February 2010
Today, several co-workers and I took our lunch break at Qdoba, where we met up with a former co-worker (she quit about 2 years ago). She had a baby recently, and so well all got a chance to see it. I felt bad that she had the baby strapped into the car seat (even though she was awake and alert) when we first got there. I figured it must’ve been really boring for her to stare at the ceiling. So, I got my lunch quickly, set my food down at a table, then ran back up to the line and asked to take the baby. Of course, the mom was pleased, as this allowed her to get her food without having to deal with baby and car seat.
I set the car seat down on the floor and immediately unstrapped the baby. I set he on my lab and held her with one hand while I ate lunch with the other. Her mom asked I minded holding her, and I said: “Well, she’s not crying, and she doesn’t smell like poop, so I don’t think there’s a problem.”
On a side note, I think it’s funny when I ask a question like: “Why did you name the baby _______?” And the parent answers: “Because my great-aunt (or whoever) was named _______.” Because, from my perspective, that’s not answering the question. That’s answering the question: “How did you become aware of this name?” which is not the question I asked. It’s as if they are only giving me a partial answer and I’m supposed to know the rest. For example…
Q: Why did my parents name me James?
Partial Answer: Because my Dad is named James.
The rest of the Answer: And my parents decided that ‘James’ was a pretty good name and that, by naming me after my Dad, I would be forced to honor him.

21 February 2010
We went out to dinner with my mom tonight. She said her husband complained she was spending too much money on her visit to Minnesota, so we paid for her, though she insisted on covering the tip.
We ate at the Olive Garden. I have an ambivalent attitude towards that place. I don’t have anything against it, really, but I don’t really have anything for it, either. I’m not a fan of Italian cooking. Spaghetti, throughout my whole life, has been the de facto dinner-to-make when we don’t feel like making anything interesting. Essentially, spaghetti is to dinner as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is to lunch. And ravioli? Nothing special. Oh – and I pretty much detest lasagna. It’s one of the few food items that I will not touch, even if we’re invited over to someone’s house explicitly to eat it.
And, really, if we are going to go to an Italian chain restaurant, Tucci Bennuch, Macaroni Grill, and Buca all outrank Olive Garden in my mind.
So why did we go? What can I say? My mom loves the place, and the unlimited salad and breadsticks mean my son can eat all he wants at no extra charge.

22 February 2010
This morning, I found out one of my articles got accepted in The Secular Nation, which is the magazine for the Atheist Alliance.
That was pretty much the high-point of my day. I really had a tough time bringing myself to care about anything today. I did what I had to do at work, but I kept staring at the clock waiting for it to be over. During lunch, I made a cursory attempt to revise the paper that’s due in class this Wednesday, but I didn’t make much headway. As I was leaving work, I discovered my Pop-eye figurine – which had been sitting on my desk at work for over five years – was gone. Unless a co-worker hid it as a lame practical joke, or I somehow misplaced it, I’m gonna guess it was stolen.
Tonight, after Owen went to bed, I still didn’t feel like doing anything. I didn’t feel like surfing the web, updating this site, working on my schoolwork, reading a book, watching a movie, or even making myself a snack. So I went to bed.
So…bottom line: apart from some cool news @ 9:10 this morning, this was a completely bland day.

23 February 2010
I picked up Owen from my sister-in-law’s home this afternoon. Another obnoxious drive through Minnecrapolis (I’ll spare the details this time). I asked my sister if I could borrow her big book of baby names. Like my wife, she’s also pregnant, so I didn’t want to wrest the book from her unless she didn’t need it. She said she already had names picked out, so she didn’t need the book.
Technically, though, I don’t think I borrowed it so much as I asked for it back. Once she handed it to me, and I flipped through it, I realized it was the same exact book as Jennifer and I had purchased years ago (long before Owen). Jennifer must’ve given it to her sister to look through during her prior pregnancy.
Anyway, the book is called A World of Baby Names. I love this book! It divides names by ethnicity – so there’s a chapter of Czech names, a chapter of Native American Names, a chapter of names from mythology, and so on – 31 chapters in all. The cool thing about it is that I immediately know which chapters to skip (I’m not giving my kid a Biblical name). With other chapters, I read a few names and see if I like the ‘style’ of that nationality’s names, and then I continue (or discontinue) reading as warranted.
Thus far, I’ve only reached chapter seven (“English Names”), and I’ve discovered that I basically just hate nearly every name on the planet.
Funny fact: the author dedicates the book to her children: John, Brian, Joseph, and Anne. Do I really want to find a name from a woman who chose those names? Thankfully, almost apologetically, she quickly adds that her children were named before the book was written.